


In Your Boots

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:09:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8716879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Jamie's the next one of them to take up management.“When were you going to tell me?”“Tell you what, Gaz?”“That you’re going to go manage in Germany.”





	

Jamie ends up being the next to take up management.

To be fair, the Sky Sports lads are always being asked to manage. Punditry is enough for the likes of Souness, who’s tried management and been thoroughly cured of the bug, but the young boys, as Souness calls them, haven’t taken a crack at it yet.

Until Gary does, and _fuck_ , he’s a cautionary tale if ever there was one.

But it doesn’t put them off too much, apparently, because then Thierry starts coaching for Belgium. And apparently, Jamie’s gotten his fill of punditry and is ready to get back in, too.

Gary finds out when Thierry finds him in his dressing room. He shifts his weight slightly, from his heels to the balls of his feet and back. The movement is subtle, but it seems glaring on Thierry, who is always cool, always calm, and never fidgets, probably because he’s never been uncomfortable before. Gary’s pretty sure the last time Thierry was nervous was before his Arsenal debut.  
  
He pulls him aside. “‘Ave you 'eard?” He asks quietly, and Gary starts worrying then, because Thierry has mostly tamed the French accent by now. The only time it gets away with swallowing his h’s these days is when he’s too emotional to moderate it.  
  
“What?” Gary asks. He aims for calm, but there’s a nervy edge to his voice, despite his best efforts.  
  
“Jamie, 'e got an offer,” Thierry says, “'e’s going to manage.”  
  
“Have Arsenal finally booted Wenger then?” He asks numbly, barely registering Thierry’s look of irritation. “Or does Abramovich think Conte’s reached his expiration date?”  
  
Thierry swallows. “It’s Germany, I think. Some club in the bottom half of the Bundesliga, I think.”  
  
“He… he doesn’t speak German,” Gary observes faintly.  
  
“’e will learn,” Thierry says, confident. “‘e’s smarter than we give ‘im credit for. Besides, most Germans are pretty good at English.“  
  
He opens his mouth to asks question, but the words don’t come out. He swallows, trying to wet his throat enough to speak.  
  
"When?” He manages, voice hoarse.  
  
“I… I don’t know, exactly.” Thierry says, hesitant. “I thought you might…” He trails off, looking uncertain. Uncertainty might be the only thing that doesn’t look good on Thierry Henry.  
  
Carra invites him over to watch the match. West Ham v Liverpool. He looks so excited when he opens the door to let Gary in. He chatters away, hoping for a monumental scoreline.

“4-1, I reckon, Gaz,” he says, eyes shining, “Imagine! Wouldn’t that be brilliant?”  
  
Gary can barely look at him, afraid that if he starts, he’ll never be able to stop.

The match is dull. Not much to say. Carra complains about the Liverpool defense, gushes about their offense, and happily concludes that he’ll take the three points, even if it wasn’t a brilliant performance. Gary doesn’t say much.

At halftime, Jamie nudges him after Redders says something ridiculously obvious on the telly.

“Brilliant man, our Redders, inne? Best pundit on Sky, y’know.”

Gary lets out a weak chuckle.

“Y’alright, Gaz? You’ve been a bit quiet tonight, mate.”

“Fine,” Gary says simply, faking a cough, “Think I might be coming down with something, though.”  
  
The match ends. Jamie stands up, gathers their dishes, and walks into the kitchen. Gary automatically grabs their mugs and follows behind.  
  
Jamie’s in the middle of washing up–he doesn’t have a dishwasher. Gary’s already made every joke he can think of about Jamie washing dishes, what a perfect domestic house-husband he’d make. Still, he picks up the towel wordlessly and dries the dishes Jamie hands him after they’ve been washed.  
  
He watches Jamie’s hands move through the sudsy foam of fairy liquid and water, removing all traces of Gary from Jamie’s mug, and he suddenly feels incredibly angry. The dish towel feels his wrath, twisting around strong fingers.  
  
“When were you going to tell me?”  
  
“Tell you what, Gaz?”  
  
“I thought we were mates now,” Gary says.  
  
“We are, Gary.” Jamie sounds confused, almost _hurt_. It only makes Gary angrier. _He doesn’t get to play that card_ , he thinks viciously, _not when_ I’m _the one that’s being left behind._  
  
“So when were you going to tell me? Were you going to wait until it got in the papers?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I know that’s how you found out about Valencia and I’m sorry about that, I truly am, but I didn’t think you were going to be so petty about it.”  
  
Jamie’s staring at him now, hands motionless on the mug. His fingers are covered in suds.  
  
“What the _fuck_ are you on about, Neville?” He asks, with an edge in his voice. He resumes washing, rinsing off the mug, probably just to piss Gary off with the normality of it. He turns to face Gary fully, and wipes his hands deliberately  on his sweatpants, just to avoid asking Gary for the towel.

Maybe Gary shouldn’t have brought up Valencia, it always seemed to irritate Jamie. Then again, that was precisely _why_ Gary had done it—to hurt him back.  
  
“You’re going to go manage in Germany.”  
  
“Who told you that?”  
  
“Thierry! I had to hear from fucking _Thierry Henry_! He thought I might know a bit more about it than he did, which is apparently a _massive_ fucking _joke…”_

“Thierry told you I was going to Germany?”

“Yes! Did you not want him to tell me or something?” A horrible thought crosses Gary’s mind.

“Is this some sort of stupid joke, Carragher?” he asks. It’s serious. It always is, when they shove friendly nicknames aside and dust off surnames painted with old rivalries instead.

There are words on the tip of Jamie’s tongue, Gary can tell. He opens his mouth, only to close it again, squeeze his eyes shut for a second, and swallow hard.

“Why are you so upset about this?” he asks instead.

“I—I’m _not_ upset,” Gary says, exasperated and defiant. ( _And lying_ ) “I just thought we were mates and mates _don’t_ do that to each other.”

“But you did it to me, didn’t you?”

Gary glowers at the ground for a moment before sighing.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Jamie,” he says. “It’s not an easy thing to do.”

“I know. Good thing I’m not doing it, eh?”

“What?”

“What did Thierry say to you? What _exactly_ did he say to you?”

“He said Jamie got an offer and he was going to manage in Germany… _oh_.”

“Yeah, you wanker, _oh_. Have you ever heard Thierry call me Jamie before? He’s been calling me Carra since the nineties, Gaz. The only reason anyone even calls me Carra is _because_ of Jamie, you know. Couldn't have two in the team, so I became Carra.”

“Redders?”

“Yes, Neville. Redders. Jamie. Redknapp, not Carragher.” Carra says. “Do we feel a bit better now?” he asks teasingly.

Gary rubs a hand at the back of his neck—he can feel himself starting to flush, and he begs his body not to betray him like this. All the same, he can feel a smile growing across his face, slow and irrepressible and unmistakably _happy_ , and he doesn’t care if Jamie sees it.

“Right. Sorry about that.”

“Sorry about what? Having a temper tantrum just because you thought your favorite Scouser was moving away?” Jamie laughs his stupid chuckling laugh, and it mixes with the relief in Gary’s stomach to make him feel warm, and not from embarrassment, but from something else.

“How much would you have missed me, Gaz? Would you have watched my matches? Or would you just move on to the next pretty face sitting across from you on Monday nights?”

He’s teasing, and Gary could tease back—he’s got three responses ready almost instantly— _any face is prettier than yours (_ classic _), I’d say good riddance_ (not bad, but it didn't hit as well, somehow) _, that implies that your face isn’t the ugliest Scouse mug I’ve ever laid eyes on_ (oh, very nice, that's the one) _…_ But Gary feels the truth tugging at his vocal chords, pounding at the back of his teeth, trying to get free.

“Did you miss me when I was gone?” he asks instead, eyes widening as they catch the sadness that flickers across Jamie’s face. _He’s never been able to school his emotions,_ Gary thinks quietly, remembering every disappointment they’d had for England. That heartbroken look hadn’t hurt him then, he'd already been hurting for his own sake, but things were different now.

Jamie looks at him. Gary can almost see the thoughts running through his head.

“Yes.” He says bluntly, after a second of silence. “I did miss you. A lot, actually. Came down to visit you, didn’t I? And I called often enough.”

The thing about their relationship is that it’s always been reciprocal—defense against defense, challenge for challenge, jokes for jokes.

And now, something else, something new—honesty for honesty. The truth knocks, one more time, against the lump in Gary’s throat.

“I would have missed you more,” Gary says, soft and certain, as though he’s admitting defeat, half-hoping Jamie doesn’t hear. _Why is the person who cares more the loser?_ Gary asks himself.

(Maybe because he's been that person all his life, and all he's done is lose people and win trophies. Still, it's too late now to break the habit of a lifetime.) 

“I would have worried about you every day. I would watch your matches and your press conferences, just to see how you were doing.” He confesses, keeping his eyes firmly on his black socks, how they’re starting to wear thin over his big toe.

“ _Gary_ ,” Jamie says, reprimanding and reassuring, caring and comforting, and everything Gary shouldn’t need.

(but he does, _he does_.)

He looks up and Jamie is near, _near_ , **_near_**.

Jamie wraps his arms around him and he stiffens for a second before relaxing. Jamie’s a bit taller than him, and Gary’s known that for years, but it feels new somehow, so close up. He huffs at the observation. He feels Jamie laugh, his chest vibrating, his back moving under Gary’s hands.

Jamie lets go too soon, but Gary lets him, pulling away until he can feel the countertop pressing into his back, until he can see Jamie’s eyes again  _(They're grey-green-blue, like the sea against Liverpudlian shores)_.

“I don’t know,” Jamie says, struggling over the words, “what’s going to happen. You know, in the future. I might end up managing some day. Maybe even abroad. You know how it is, Gaz. I like Sky, but being a watcher and a talker all the time? Forever? It sounds so _dull_.” He trails off, making a face. Gary knows, knows that energy thrums under Jamie’s skin and he burns with it, running and boxing and training to scratch at an itch only the beautiful game can fix.

“But if I do, I promise I’ll tell you, okay? You won’t have to hear from the papers, and you won’t have to hear from Thierry, either. Promise.” He sounds painfully earnest.

Gary looks at him, a few feet away. He looks at his eyes, and his forehead, and his greying temples, and his absurd cheekbones, and his strong jaw, and his chin, and his nose, and his mouth.

And his mouth.

The words go through his head like a glitchy cassette tape in his first car— _Jamie’s mouth, Jamie’s mouth, JamieJamieJamie, mouthmouthmouth._

And Jamie stays quiet and still and lets him look, for a bit, though his cheeks get a bit redder under the scrutiny. And then he’s coming close again, closer, closer, _closer_ , and then he’s kissing Gary, and the relief that had been churning in his stomach explodes into joy and adrenaline and he hasn’t felt this wonderful since the last time he’d worn a United shirt.

He hasn’t felt this joy, frenetic in his bones, but calm in his head, like he’s sat on an armchair in his brain, watching the view from behind his closed eyes. If he’d had this in Valencia, maybe he would’ve done better, or at least _been happier_. Or maybe he wouldn’t have taken the job in the first place, because he didn’t need to, because this was enough, it was enough, it was perfect and lovely and Jamie had always been enough, and how could he not have _known_?

Jamie’s obscenely perfect lips are on his, and Jamie was made to kiss Gary and Gary was made to be kissed by him, and so– _we have to stay like this forever,_ _those are the rules now_ , Gary thinks dazedly. Jamie is everywhere, and Gary wants to live in this moment forever, breathless and warm and _JamieJamieJamie_ throbbing in his brain and in his veins. His bones have gone all squishy, and he’s glad, the part of him in the armchair says, that he has a warm, strong Jamie and this hard, cold countertop holding him up, because he thinks his knees might have melted—he sure as hell doesn’t feel them anymore.

He can’t bear the thought of pulling away from Jamie just to make sure he still has legs, not when this is the best thing that’s happened in such a long, long time…

 _He still has fingers,_   _though_ , his armchair-self notes, because they’re in Jamie’s hair, which is soft and a bit ruffled-up from when he’d been lounging on the sofa like a child. He flattens it down with his still-existing fingers.

He still has arms, because he feels Jamie’s shoulders under them, the gentle, solid lines of muscle.

He still has a heart, because _oh!_ it’s galloping and skipping and dancing and all those cliché things that he used to think were nonsensical. Honestly he should probably call a cardiologist, because this sounds more like an arrhythmia than anything else. But fuck it, because if this is how he dies, he’ll be happy, at least, and he’ll be with Jamie.

Jamie pulls his lips away from Gary’s, but it doesn’t hurt so much because they’re still wrapped around each other.

 _I love you,_ he thinks, and there’s no panic or hesitation or horror in it, as eight-year-old Gary (or twelve-year-old or twenty-six-year old or thirty-two-year-old Gary, for that matter) might have expected if he’d known how his future would play out. _I just… love you._

“Do you know what the best part of Valencia was?” Gary asks instead, and there’s no code, no banter, no subtext to be unraveled and analyzed. There’s just _this_ , Jamie’s arms still around his back and Jamie’s woolen sweater scratching where his cheek is resting against Jamie’s chest, barely making out the steady _thud-thud-thud_ of Jamie’s reliable heart.

“Tell me,” Jamie says, fingers tracing along Gary’s back, following the dips between his ribs, curving round his side, and working his way across his chest.

“It was knowing you liked me. Even when you didn’t have to. Even when we weren’t working together.” Gary pulls away, steps out of Jamie’s arms and takes two short strides away from him, sorry for the coldness of the air.

He turns back and looks at his Jamie, in a black wool sweater and grey sweatpants hanging low on his waist. “It was knowing you liked me enough to call me, to think of me. Knowing that I _mattered_ , enough for you to come to Spain, to visit me.”

Jamie could protest this, Gary knows, could say that the Daily Mail had sent him, that it hadn’t been his choice. He could say that he went to visit his old mates, to go see the world’s best strike force in action. But he doesn’t. He just stands there in the corner, hands pushed into his pants pockets, as if maybe he wants to pull Gary back. The right side of his mouth pulls up, in a crooked grin that shouldn’t steal the air out of Gary’s chest, but does.

Jamie pushes off the counter and takes one step towards him.

“If I went to Germany, I’d take you with me, Gaz,” he says, and that’s a big promise, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, it’s completely unfeasible, really, but Jamie looks sincere enough, and Gary loves him. More importantly, Gary _knows_ him. Knows him intimately, personally, well enough to take the words and rearrange them into _I love you too,_ and _please don’t leave again._

So this time, he’s the one who closes the gap between them, reaches out for the front of Jamie’s sweater, and yanks him down into another kiss. Because if Gary’s going to lose his mind over this man, he’s going to do his damnedest to drive him mad in return.

 _It’s a properly good kiss,_ Gary thinks, satisfied as he pulls away, because this is good, but he has a thought that needs sharing now, and they have forever to kiss, don’t they? If they want to. (Gary rather thinks they do.)

“Hang on, so Redders is going to manage in Germany?”

“Yes! Was I not clear? Has my amazing snogging erased your memory? Fuck, I knew I was good, Neville, but I didn’t know I was _that_ good.”

Gary snorts, goes to shove Jamie’s shoulder but ends up just cupping the side of his neck.

“He’s so fucked.” Gary says.

“Yup.” Jamie agrees casually, a bit conflicted at throwing his mate under the bus.

“D’you wanna come to bed,” he breathes against Gary’s ear before dropping down to kiss along the side of his neck, “reward me for not fucking off to Germany?” He adds, voice low and affectionate.

Gary does want that, actually.


End file.
